


The (concept of the) World Was Wide Enough

by Suaine



Category: A Memory Called Empire - Arkady Martine, Teixcalaan Series - Arkady Martine
Genre: F/M, Hamilton References, M/M, Multi, Musings on Empire, Politics, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:09:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28136730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suaine/pseuds/Suaine
Summary: Yskandr Aghavn comes to the world like a drowning man comes to shore, but he is living on borrowed time. Teixcalaan has so many wonderful things to choke on.
Relationships: Yskandr Aghavn/Nineteen Adze, Yskandr Aghavn/Nineteen Adze/Six Direction, Yskandr Aghavn/Six Direction, Yskandr Aghavn/Teixcalaan
Comments: 12
Kudos: 24
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	The (concept of the) World Was Wide Enough

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gammarad](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gammarad/gifts).



> This prompt was absolutely delightful and the truth is that I only wish I was a better writer, because there's a whole world in the space between these three people. Centuries after canon is done, Teixcalaan will sing songs of them.
> 
> (The Hamilton references are title and structure only, although the very concept of Hamilton is such a Teixcalaanli thing to do. Reinvent yourself by elevating your ancestors through song, turning them into a reflection of the hopes you have for the future.)

(one)

The world watches as Yskandr Aghavn sets foot onto its surface for the first time and it breathes with him gustily, as excited as he is. Capricious wind catches in his hair and the feeling sends a violent shiver down his spine. There's air flow on Lsel, but nothing like this wild and primal energy, wind so strong it tears the breath from his lungs. Even with all the control that Teixcalaan has over the planet, it can't stop the seasons.

Yskandr loves the world instantly. It is not unexpected, he's been in love with Teixcalaanli culture for most of his life, a yearning that filled him with joy and grief in equal measure. To finally breathe the air of the city is something that he would write a poem about if he had any true aptitude for it. But there was always a chance that the reality of it wouldn't live up to his incredible expectations and he is far too tired from the journey to appreciate any of the finer details. It is the primal aspect of the world that sparks joy inside his heart.

A man waits for him at the station's gates, smaller than him, but not by that much - Yskandr is short for a Stationer - who looks delightfully tousled from the wind and quite annoyed about it, enough that even his Teixcalaanli facade is cracking under the strain. He must recognize Yskandr, because he gestures him to move closer. Yskandr fumbles through the customary greeting, not wrong exactly but still so unused to the subtleties of their body language. He hopes all this will come with practice.

"I am Fifteen Engine," the man says, and Yskandr is a little distracted because the tiniest little petulant curve of his mouth makes something low in Yskandr's belly curl tight. This man is going to be a challenge and Yskandr can't wait to try and conquer him.

He smiles, wide and barbarian, all Stationer teeth and bright eyes. Fifteen Engine sighs.

It's the start of a beautiful friendship.

Culture shock doesn't happen the same way for someone who has always been immersed in a culture's exports. It's not the big things that trip him up when he has a moment to breathe. The big things are immortalized in epic poems and distributed across the stars and he knows what to expect when it comes to those.

What gets him are the little things, the way shower heads are slightly lower on the wall, drinking glasses are double the size, and sometimes in summer or winter the outside will have a very different temperature to the inside of a building. He misses the Station sometimes, but it's less than he's missed Teixcalaan all his life.

Another thing he wasn't prepared for is exactly how often he will be introduced to someone and half his brain will be a thirsty, fumbling idiot who wants to worship their every move. Teixcalaanlitzlim are damn gorgeous, as a whole. Of course, there's variation here, more so than there could ever be on Lsel, so maybe it's a trick of the light, of the ever present sun burning the images of these people into his heart, but maybe he's just starved for touch and Teixcalaan is the feast.

Fifteen Engine hands him the infofiche stick with a slight Teixcalaanli grin and Yskandr knows he’s either going to love or hate what’s on it, but in any case, it will be an adventure.

“It’s time for you to be introduced to the world.”

(two)

(Tsagkel Ambak, first of her line, breathes the air of the world for the first time with lungs not her own and it is her who feels the grief, her who understands that the beauty comes with teeth.)

Yskandr falls to his knees, both metaphorically and physically, when the emperor touches his hands and truly looks at him with those bright, sharp eyes. The world falls away. The world opens to him like a flower and he is the sun. The emperor is the most powerful entity in the galaxy and he is so very beautiful.

Yskandr knows he’s in trouble but he also has a mission.  _ “Make them love you.” _

He gives the emperor a Stationer smile and lets himself fall.

It is so very easy to fall in love with an emperor if you already love the empire, but it is very hard to convince them to love you back. By its very nature, the world has no use for outsiders, doesn’t assign value to anything outside its influence, except for what it can take, make its own, use up.

Yskandr knows he’s going to be used up. He knows because the voice at the back of his mind is analytical and very, very good at politics.

Fifteen Engine is not.

He’s a good man, loyal and sharp, but he lacks something that all good politicians have, something that makes them callous when they have to be, charming but not necessarily  _ kind _ . He doesn’t like the way Yskandr bends to the emperor and only half of it is jealousy.

“You know this is going to destroy you,” Fifteen Engine says over lunch, casting furtive glances around them. “Teixcalaan is not… it’s not  _ good _ .” Fifteen Engine should be saying that it’s not good for outsiders, not good for barbarians, qualify the statement somehow, but he doesn’t. He’s blunt in his assessment and the conclusion is damning.

Yskandr bites down on the irrational anger that threatens to show on his face. He’s chosen this, both eyes open, and he’s not going to let some slightly seditious bureaucrat ruin his mission by having inconvenient feelings.

“I know what I’m doing,” he says, and lifts his hand off Fifteen Engine’s knee. He leans back in his chair, takes a sip from his wine. “You are going to have to trust me.”

Fifteen Engine resigns from service after his two year contract is up. It’s for the best.

Yskandr doesn’t have any inconvenient feelings about  _ that _ .

The emperor tries a Stationer smile and it looks deranged, imperfect, almost more like a grimace of pain than a smile. “How am I doing?” the leader of all Teixcalaan asks, slightly tipsy, hair in artful disarray.

He almost looks like a person.

Yskandr’s heart beats like a war drum, like the thump of energy weapons hitting station shields. His mouth is dry and he reaches for his glass. A quiet attendant has filled it continuously and Yskandr has lost track of the amount of alcohol he’s been drinking.

“Needs some improvement, your majesty,” he says, grinning over the rim of his glass, eyes meeting eyes. He’s going to drown and he’s going to like it and if he’s very, very lucky, it’s going to save some lives.

(three)

The yaotlek Nineteen Adze is a beautiful woman of indeterminate age, something that Yskandr is never going to ask about because he’s just not that brave. Or stupid. Not that she would be offended, she walks into a room like a drawn weapon and commands every breath that’s uttered in her presence. His barbarian manners are beneath her notice.

She’s radiant and he wants her desperately.

Nineteen Adze raises a brow at him. “Ambassador,” she says, the word like an indictment on her tongue, “I have heard so much about you.”

Nineteen Adze bows to the emperor like a sapling in a strong wind, determined not to break. Yskandr watches as the yaotlek renews her oaths of service and stands at the emperor’s request, for them to meet each other as equals.

Something hot and awful burns at the center of him, desire and despair.

Yskandr wants them both and he knows he can have them, in a way, and all he has to do for it is sell himself, his soul and his people. For the greater good, he thinks, and the voice isn’t his own. Tsagkel has kept her opinion on their mission close to the chest, ever the seasoned diplomat, but the more emotional he is, the stronger her voice becomes. That’s when they’re the furthest apart and she’s the most distinct as a person.

It is unusual for any imago to have much of a voice after integration is complete, but surrounded by a hungry empire, weeks away from home, he’s glad he has someone to talk to, someone he can truly trust.

Maybe it’s his fault that the old woman is sometimes still a person and not a part of him. “I’m probably going to do something really stupid,” he says under his breath as he watches the emperor and the yaotlek laugh together like old friends.

_ I wish I could say I was surprised,  _ she says, and he can hear the echo of her laughter in his mind.

(four)

Yskandr returns home only once and the air on the station feels stale, the gravity unsure. He’s gotten used to the visceral certainty of the planet that hosts Teixcalaan and feels unmoored without it.

They take his imago machine and give him a blank slate, something new to inscribe with history as it happens. Tsagkel is still with him, though she has long since stopped speaking in a different voice. But he recognizes her in his tempered negotiations and the determination to see his plans through.

He comes home to leave an imprint of himself in case his plans were to go unbearably awry, as they undoubtedly would.

An echo, to try again, if there is still time.

The emperor smiles like a Stationer when Yskandr does or says something that pleases him. It’s a blatant flirtation and Yskandr would be annoyed if he wasn’t so charmed. “How was your visit with your family?”

Yskandr resists the urge to touch the back of his neck, the scar little more than a slightly hardened line of skin. It’s visible if you know what to look for but doesn’t appear like anything other than a nasty scratch. “They were glad to see me,” he says, thinking of his mother’s concerned glances. She’d known he was carrying a burden he could not leave with her.

“That’s good to hear,” the emperor says, his tone gently dismissive. He does not care about Yskandr’s family beyond their connection to Yskandr himself. “It is good to have you back, ambassador. The palace has been lonely without you.”

The palace is a small city, bustling with people. Yskandr blushes, his ears feeling hot in the cool evening air. “I’m sure you found ways to amuse yourself, your majesty.”

The emperor laughs.

The kiss, when it comes, feels inevitable. Yskandr is still surprised. He feels himself tremble under those deft, calloused hands. The emperor is simply a man taking what has been offered so blatantly. Yskandr falls to his knees, in worship, in supplication, in desire.

“What do you want?”

Six Direction looks bright and predatory, larger than life but all here, all human.

“You.”

“I worry,” Yskandr says, his fingertips tracing naked skin. Under his gentle touch, Six Direction’s skin is fragile, easily bruised. He looks his age when he sleeps. “What will become of Lsel when Teixcalaan next looks toward expansion?” There have been rumors, unrest in the patricians’ ranks - peace, even relative peace that still demands blood, has lost its lustre. The new generation doesn’t remember what it is like to go to war and only hears about the glory.

Six Direction curls a hand around his wrist, firm enough to still his movements. “Do you not wish to be illuminated by the sun?”

There’s certainly a kind of safety in it, but Lsel’s soul is too different to be able to thrive under Teixcalaanli rule. Yskandr can feel those parts of himself burn away in the relentless light. If Lsel were to be annexed properly, what makes it Lsel would wither away. Then it would just be Teixcalaan in space.

Civilized.

“I have something to offer,” he says, much later. “Something worth a small station’s independence.”

Worth more than that, Yskandr hopes. Independence now, defense when it becomes inevitable. It’s the only thing he has to give -

“You would make me immortal,” Six Direction says, nodding in something that is not quite understanding.

“It’s not immortality,” Yskandr says, and thinks of what Tsagkel might say. Probably laugh at his naivety.

(five)

When the child is born, Yskandr is one of the very few who get to hold him. Eight Antidote is a quiet child, staring out at the world with an ever-questioning gaze. Yskandr cries into his hair and begs forgiveness.

“He’s a ninety percent clone of His Brilliance,” Nineteen Adze says, her fingers carding through Yskandr’s hair. “Do you know what the other ten percent are?”

Yskandr shivers despite the heat of their bodies.

“I have no idea.”

He does have an idea and it is this: it’s possible Stationer physiology is just different enough from Teixcalaanlitzlim that the imago machine would be rejected by the body. An old man can be treated with medicine at the end of his life, to make the body malleable enough. It is easier if a child already has the necessary aptitude.

Six Direction is running out of time and he will have his immortality, no matter the cost.

(six)

This is the problem: one does not simply steal an imago machine. Yskandr’s own is a potential prototype, but who here on Teixcalaan would be both capable and willing to replicate it, without a word to anyone? Six Direction could order it done, but there is the matter of secrecy. His reign is not unassailable and if the imago machine were revealed, no one would support his remaining on the throne.

The emperor is the only one who has more to lose from this secret coming out than Yskandr himself, and with him all of Lsel.

“We must hurry,” Six Direction says into the crook of his neck, curled into Yskandr’s side. He seems much smaller these days, losing muscle mass to an unstoppable process that may just be age or may be something faster. Yskandr is not privy to this information, but he hopes that the palace physicians are. He hopes that pride won’t lose them precious time.

Yskandr loves Teixcalaan and he has grown to love it more in the years that he has spent here, learning all its jagged edges, its dark secrets. He loves it for its imperfection as much or more than he has ever loved the pristine idea of it.

“I need your help,” he says to Nineteen Adze, who is among the very few he and the emperor both love and trust.

(seven)

Nineteen Adze puts him into contact with the very few of the ixplanatl employed by the ministry who have loose morals and secure tongues. It is honestly a little disturbing how much joy they seem to take in the idea of cutting him open to see how he works, and how much they pretend they hate the concept of the imago machine.

They pay perfect lip service to Teixcalaanli squeamishness.

(eight)

Nineteen Adze paces in her bedroom like a tiger in a cage. It makes Yskandr feel crowded despite the excess of personal space that all Teixcalaanlitzlim call their own. None of them would survive a month on Lsel, sharing space and air and  _ life _ with thousands of others in close quarters.

“You can’t do it,” she says, her hands tightening into fists periodically, uncontrolled, a weakness she would never allow anyone else to see. Maybe Six Direction, on one of his good days. Nineteen Adze tends to let herself go with the emperor more readily when she has the feeling he is strong enough to catch her.

Yskandr loves them both so much it takes his breath away. “It must be done.” He takes a deep breath and reaches out to take her hand as she swings by on one of her arcs. She tenses under his grip. “He must live.”

Nineteen Adze looks at him with such sadness, Yskandr begins to feel like he’s missing half of this conversation.

The next time Yskandr sees Six Direction, his kisses linger on too hot skin, his gaze is caught by too wide eyes.

The emperor is dying.

(nine)

Teixcalaan is beautiful and terrible and radiant and cruel. It is so vast that the stars look pale besides its glory, so powerful that the galaxy bends under its will. There is no longer any innocence to its existence, no longer a chance that it might be  _ good _ , all that it can be now is  _ great _ .

And on every breath rests the potential of becoming so massive that it collapses under its own weight, crushing its own heart.

(ten)

Yskandr dies.

He dies gasping, crying, begging.

Gasping for air that won’t come, gasping out a curse to let his murderer know that vengeance does not end with his last breath.

Crying for his emperor, his love, his Teixcalaan.

Begging for another chance, another moment, a little bit more time.

But Teixcalaan sees no worth in kindness, has no word for the feelings that Yskandr has for this beautiful, terrible, magnificent world. The universe grows dim around him and Yskandr is not afraid for himself.

(He is, a little.)

In his last moment, he fears not for the decadent, sprawling splendor of Teixcalaan -

(There will always be Teixcalaan, even if the empire falls.)

\- but for his cramped and rough little station, all alone in the night sky. Lsel, he thinks, I am so very sorry. Who will speak for you now? Who will save you?

His world grows dim and dimmer, and in the darkness there is only one point of light.

A small, shining star filled to the brim with the lives of his people.

Teixcalaan has had his heart for all of his life, has elevated him, corrupted him, and discarded him.

It is Lsel that he thinks of as he dies.

Home.

Lsel, I’m coming home.


End file.
